


Apoptosis

by Nana_41175



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Falling Out of Love, Fix-It, M/M, Moving On, Post-SPECTRE, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:28:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27974456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nana_41175/pseuds/Nana_41175
Summary: Apoptosis (from Ancient Greek ἀπόπτωσις, apóptōsis, "falling off") is a form of programmed cell death that occurs in multicellular organisms. Biochemical changes lead to an orderly progression with characteristic cell changes and demise. Importantly, apoptosis removes cells during development, eliminates potentially cancerous and virus-infected cells, and maintains the body’s crucial internal balance.Or, Q finally moves on from Bond and allows himself to realize M’s many qualities that please the old soul within him. But then...
Relationships: James Bond & Q, M | Gareth Mallory/Q
Comments: 26
Kudos: 39





	Apoptosis

**Author’s Notes** : Hey everyone! Soooo, this fic came about thanks to the spirited discussion of everyone at the 00Q Slack chatroom. If you were to ask me, I would never, in a million years, imagine writing anything like this, but here it is!

And, if you’re just like me who adores Bond but at the same time would like to WRING his neck for what he did to Q in SPECTRE, this is the revenge fic I’ve envisioned for Q. It may not be everyone’s cup of tea, especially with the bit about M, but if you can give the Muse a chance to make her case, then we hope you enjoy!

Thanks so much as always to my wonderful beta, [**Christinefromsherwood**](https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinefromsherwood/pseuds/christinefromsherwood), for her insightful comments! The first line of the fic is lifted from the linked tumblr post and gifs below, which are brilliant. More author's notes at the end.

* * *

[It was such a quiet little death, the breaking of a heart.](https://perchanceoneday.tumblr.com/post/623452473473040384/it-s-such-a-quiet-death-the-breaking-of-a-heart)

Neat and bloodless, there wasn’t so much a moan, or even a tiny, pitiful squeak as he felt something splinter to pieces inside him. Silent though it was, the pain was real enough, yet he still managed a small, sad smile of understanding as Bond stood before him that early morning while Q branch was still deserted, telling him, “Q…there’s just one more thing I need…”

Without another word he let him go, with the unknown blond woman Bond had met barely a week ago by his side in the newly refurbished DB5 that had taken the minions weeks and weeks to put together, almost from scratch. He’d devoted himself to lovingly designing every minute detail, from the gorgeous, bullet-proof exterior right down to the last switch that would turn the car into a war machine.

It would be his gift to Bond, he’d decided. And it turned out to be just that— his parting gift.

He would let Bond go without telling him how he felt, and why should he? It was the best decision he would ever make, now that the dust had settled from the entire Spectre debacle, leaving them all dazed and blinking in the aftermath.

If he had his way, he would bury the secret for as long as he lived. He was grateful to have his dignity intact, for not baring himself to Bond; showing what a fool he truly was. At any rate, Bond knew. He'd sensed Q's feelings for him and had not hesitated to manipulate and manuever his way around to getting what he wanted from him, right until the end.

And now this: M had informed him just the day before that Bond had handed in his resignation so he could be with the new woman in his life. He'd only known her for a few days yet how effortlessly she'd claimed Bond's heart.

So Q watched the man he was in love with walk away from his life one final time, and when he was gone, he breathed out, then in. Slowly, as if to drag air in via fractured ribs.

 _There. Keep breathing,_ he thought. In due time, it will not hurt as much.

 _And keep moving, because there is work to be done._ A whole lot of work as they picked up the shattered pieces of the British Intelligence Service.

Q sat back down at his desk, nimble fingers back to flying over the keyboard as his phone rang, signaling his first appointment for the day.

Naturally, it was M.

* * *

“Yes, it will take time,” said M over the phone, his voice carefully neutral as he spoke with the Foreign Secretary, “but the Quartermaster is here with me now. He’s working on it even as we speak.”

Over at his side of the long conference table, Q continued to type steadily into his laptop, his gaze hardly veering from the lines of code before him. He did not have to look at M to know that the man was tired; they all were. Beside him was Moneypenny, busy with her phone. Across from her sat Tanner, also engrossed in his laptop. It was nearly 10 pm.

“Yes, I do realize that,” M replied curtly over some criticism that Q could only imagine being lobbed at him from Whitehall. “And I’ve already made the necessary countermeasures. We will be able to get down to the very bottom of whatever Denbigh has set up and dismantle it.”

These evening sessions had stretched on for months, and Q had managed to shrug off the invisible cloak of tension that initially hovered over him whenever he had to meet up with the Boss. These sessions were far from easy or stress-free, but at least they’d all settled down into a smoothly coordinated team effort.

And it did help that he was there to help M and not be the target of his ire.

“Hold on, sir,” M said presently, “I’m sure Q can better explain the new online protocols.”

Q straightened in his seat as M switched the phone to speaker mode. “Good evening, sir…”

At half past ten, M nodded his dismissal of Tanner and Moneypenny. “Thank you,” he said. “Q and I will carry on from here.”

Q gave the two departing figures a small nod and settled down for M’s hour of confidential briefings, reserved for just the two of them. These contained delicate instructions that Q would need to figure out how to execute. They frequently required bending but not outright breaking the law, something that Q was quite accustomed to.

“Be careful with the Home Secretary,” M advised. “Dealing with Thames House is always a prickly affair, but we have no choice in this regard, given how Denbigh had thrown everything into chaos.”

“Understood, sir,” Q murmured.

“And here,” said M, pushing a fresh stack of paperwork towards Q. “To be started as soon as possible.”

“Of course, sir.”

M glanced at his watch. “We can call it a night, I think,” he said, rising from his chair to head over to the drinks tray on one side of the room. “What will you have, Q?”

“Oh, umm. Whisky, please,” Q replied as he pushed his glasses up his nose. He’d found he had developed a liking for M’s Talisker.

He knew this was totally unnecessary, but M had factored in a small drink to end their evenings to give time for Q to finish with his computers.

M came back with a glass for him. As for himself, it was usually scotch or some brandy.

Q accepted his glass and took a small sip, logging off from his computers one by one as M sat patiently a few seats away, waiting for him and hardly saying anything.

They nursed their drinks in silence. They were beyond the initial awkward phase and had grown comfortable enough around each other for the usual small talk outside work, but Q found that he was usually not able to initiate it.

So he waited, though this time M seemed preoccupied with matters that would take his attention for the next few days. He sat there, a hand to his temple, elbow on the table, deep in thought. He’d rolled up his sleeves, revealing a forearm made of whipcord muscle.

Q had to look away lest he be caught staring. It was becoming a bad habit of his lately, he realized, stealing glances at M.

After a while, M came out of his reverie and stood up, rolling down his sleeves and slipping into his jacket and coat as Q readied his messenger bag.

“Come along,” murmured M as he grabbed at his bag and umbrella.

Q trotted behind him, a bit self-conscious at the idea of M driving him home. Well. Not M but his chauffeur, but the fact that M was doing this, sending him home personally instead of assigning him a separate car…

But then he was overthinking it, he thought. Perhaps M was just trying to cut unnecessary expenses. Heaven knows their budget had been dealt a severe blow by Bond’s latest escapade and had yet to recover.

In the warm darkness of the car as they sped through London’s cold, rainy streets, finally, there came some small talk.

“I trust the cats are doing well,” said M, suddenly.

It took Q a moment to respond. “Oh,” he said, trying not to look thunderstruck, “yes. They are. They’re both fine.”

“You’re not around most times.”

Q mustered a small laugh that came out as a strange giggle. Damn it all to hell. “Oh, well. They’ve got automatic feeders, so…”

M turned to him, eyebrows raised. That was not what he meant and Q knew it.

“Well, our nightly reunions are always a happy occasion,” Q ventured, wondering if that made any sense. Or was sane enough to count as a reply. Nothing in this conversation seemed to be, as far as he was concerned.

That seemed to satisfy M as he nodded and looked away. Of course, Q reasoned, M would know about his cats. They were the safest bets for a politely pointless conversation, after all; even though it may be more natural for his boss to inquire after the people in his life. But then Q would not be surprised if M knew there weren’t many of those, either.

In many ways, they were alike, he and M. He'd gleaned enough from the boss's confidential file to know that M was divorced, with a grown-up daughter, and that he came home to an empty but quite luxurious flat.

True to form, there was nothing more from the man until they pulled up the curb outside Q’s flat.

“Thursday, dinner at the club,” M reminded him just as Q made to open the door. “I trust you will have your report ready by then.”

“Yes, thank you, sir,” said Q, smiling a bit as he let himself out. “Good night.”

“Good night, Q.”

He watched the car pull away before he began the process of entering his premises, thinking his boss was a nob but rather… sweet?

_(No. Absolutely the wrong word. That’s not anything anyone can say regarding M. How could he possibly think that?)_

Well. _Concerned_ enough to be asking after his cats, at least?

He supposed he could work with this. In a way, he rather liked that M, normally not one to mince his words where work was concerned, could be rather constipated when it came to small talk.

And the Thursday night working dinners at M’s club was a new fixture in their schedule. Given the excellent food and the occasional, interesting company by way of its members, it was something to look forward to.

Yet more often than not, he was alone with M during these dinners and Q found that he was looking forward to this more than anything else, and this gave Q pause as he entered his flat.

How on earth, and— more importantly— _when_ did this start?

* * *

 **More author's notes:** Thames House = MI5

[ _Talisker_ ](https://www.thewhiskyexchange.com/b/40/talisker-single-malt-scotch-whisky)is a single-malt whisky that is made by the sea on the shores of the Isle of Skye. It offers a smoky sweetness and maritime notes.


End file.
